


The wrong Argent

by assassi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cover, Denial, Eventual happy end, M/M, Mates, Mentions of Sterek, Smut, peter is a creature of habit, petopher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assassi/pseuds/assassi
Summary: “There was a prophecy once. That a wolf will find their mate in a hunter. And that would result in a unit stronger than any other before.”Peter snorted. “Yeah. We saw how that played out.”“She wasn’t his mate”, Deaton argued.“Well, obviously.”“But it wasn’t just Derek who was playing around with a hunter at the time. The prophecy wasn’t meant for Derek and Kate. She was just… the wrong Argent, if you will. But your story with Chris Argent has not just begun now. Has it?”





	The wrong Argent

There used to be a porch swing at the veranda of the old Hale house. Talia used to sit there for hours trying to get Derek to sleep. And just as the brat had finally grown out of it there had been Cora. Talia used to say that only that swing helped her retain some sense of sanity.

Peter smiled, lost in the bittersweet memories. All that remained of them – the house, his sister, his pack and his old life, was ash. His throat still clenched with the smell and feel of it; it still crunched under his boots when he came here to visit and remember.

Or when he came to say goodbye.

He got into his car and drove off, leaving it all behind. There was only a construction site in his rearview mirror.

*

_I don't believe in no devil_  
'Cause I done raised this hell  
I've been the last one standing  
When all the giants fell _…_

The place was drowned in darkness and stank of carrion. The red-and blue lights from the police cruisers looked like something out of a bad horror movie as they kept throwing strange shadows over the already creepy crime scene.

“Would someone finally provide some light?!”, agent Clarks barked.

A few flashlights flickered over the damage in the room.

“Dear Lord…”, someone whined.

Someone else promptly vomited judging by the sound.

It was a massacre. There were five bodies, all of them mangled beyond any recognition. The walls were painted red. Pieces of brain tissue and viscera fell on the floor with a nasty squelch.

“It’s happened recently”, the pathologist said. “I’ll have to get them in the morgue and make an autopsy before I could tell for sure but so far I see no bullet wounds. Was it an animal?”

Clarks tsk-ed, nodding to the numerous weapons in the room.

“They look like hunters. Or more like, hitmen. It looks like an inside job…”

“Or someone else dealing with the competition”, agent Burk said.

Observing quietly from the side, a young man gritted his teeth. Oh, they _were_ hunters alright. And he knew exactly which animal had done that.

*

Becoming a pátissier hadn’t been Peter’s dream when he was a kid. He’d always thought he’d be in politics, ruling over the plebs in some way or another. Maybe a lawyer – the best one out there. Or a CEO in some fancy glass office with a view.

Point was he’d always imagined himself as someone with a lot of power. Yet here he was, owning a small pastry shop in a small town as far from Beacon Hills as he could get. A job no one would expect for him.

Strangely enough he ran a good, successful business. People often stumbled into the shop out of curiosity but most of them kept coming back for more. Because, as Peter liked to say with just the right amount of a growl in his deep seductive voice, he knew how to give it to someone.

He would have said the same to the young man leaning against his car and watching him from across the street as Peter closed up for the day. And once it would have scared the kid.

But Stiles was not a kid anymore.

“I see you have finally given up on that piece of crap you used to drive”, Peter said as a greeting as he stepped closer to the man. He nodded towards the sleek black SUV. “Nice ride.”

Stiles’ lips twitched in a smirk. He nodded towards the shop.

“Nice cover.”

A wolf would have heard the stutter in Peter’s heartbeat. But a mere mortal would never be able to figure out the truth behind his poker face. His smile didn’t waver.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Agent Stillinski.”

Stiles’ smile widened barely and he nodded minutely, acknowledging Peter’s subtle way to tell him he’d done his homework.

“Your last job was messier than the others. The feds don’t have a suspect yet...”

“You say that like you’re not a fed yourself”, Peter smirked arrogantly. “Here to lock me up, agent?”

Stiles’ expression turned darker.

“Spending time with someone, forgotten by everyone else, helps you see them in another perspective. Helps you understand them.”

“And what did you understand, Stiles?”, Peter hissed.

Stiles watched him for a long quiet minute. It was disturbing how much the spastic brat had changed in that sense. It felt wrong somehow.

“It’s easy to point a finger and call someone the bad guy. It took me a while to ask myself why that someone would turn that way. People kept taking things from you – your memories, your love, your child. Your family.”

Peter narrowed his eyes, searching for the inevitable pity. There was none. If anything, Stiles looked angry. _On Peter’s behalf_.

Huh.

 “I’m not excusing your many fuck ups. But when you fuck with someone’s brain it’s kind of bound to happen. So for the record I blame your sister the most.”

Double huh.

“So I’m not here to lock you up. I know that those five men were hunters who didn’t follow the Code”, Stiles shrugged. “You dealt with them, I’m fine with that.”

His face suddenly became deadly serious. And there was something more than agent Stillinski, something far more powerful that made Peter listen intently.

“But if you cross the line and strike an innocent or someone following the rules… I’ll do more than putting you in jail.”

Peter nodded slowly. Stiles nodded back. Then he smiled, wide and sincere as if someone had blown a candle and dissipated his serious look.

“I’m a big fan of your strawberry shortcake. Just sayin’, in case you decide to send me some. And know that I have someone to sniff out any poison you might be tempted to use”, he winked, getting into the car.

“So. You and dearest nephew finally sorted out your shit”, Peter remarked.

Stiles put on the aviators and flashed him a grin before taking off without further comment. Peter shook his head. He’d seen that smirk before. _On Derek_.

*

_I am the unknown fighter_  
A dark horse coming for you  
I'm gonna push up higher  
I'm gonna do what I do _…_

Peter hissed, ducking behind a wall. He looked down at his left shoulder, his right hand coming up to press against the gaping wound. Bloody rivulets ran between his clenched fingers. He knew that burn.

Wolfsbane.

It was bound to happen when you dealt with hunters, he guessed. But acknowledging that wouldn’t save his life. Not without the _same_ kind of wolfsbane for an antidote. 

There was more gunfire in the living room but the sound was different. The few remaining idiots scrambled to hide or answer it. But amongst all the yells and orders to each other there was a single choked-out word that got Peter’s attention.

“ _You_ …?!”

Who?

The shooting and the yells suddenly ceased with a gurgled sound of someone choking on his own blood. The room fell deadly quiet to human ears. But Peter was no human. And the silence only made it easier to hear the faintest sound of footsteps coming closer to where he was. He clenched his jaw and prepared for an attack.

There was a flash of movement and he suddenly found himself on the wrong side of a Desert Eagle. His own claws were inches away from the man’s neck. He looked up. Right into a pair of pale blue eyes.

_“Hale?!”_ , the man rumbled.

Peter gulped dryly and composed himself quickly. He didn’t lower his claws yet.

“Argent.”

The hunter frowned a little as if unused to that name anymore and lowered the gun. Peter took some more time to step back warily, closely observing the other man’s every move. Argent put the gun back in its holster and reached inside his jacket. Peter tensed, ready to fight back. Argent noticed that and made a point of moving very slowly as he extracted his hand with a small vial clenched in his fingers. He left it on the closest flat surface.

“For your wound”, he nodded towards Peter’s shoulder.

Even from where he stood Peter could smell the wolfsbane. It made him sick but he knew it was the only thing that could help him. He nodded briskly.

Argent nodded back, turned around and left without looking back.

*

Christopher Argent sighed, cursing under his breath as he tried to twist around further and reach the wound on his back. It was hard touching it with the tips of his fingers much less stitching himself up. But stubborn as he was, he kept trying. Half an hour in and he was on his third stitch. Twelve more to go.

There was a knock on the door and he cursed again. It couldn’t be the housekeeper since that place could barely afford wi-fi. He hadn’t rented the room for its luxury. He needed a bed to sleep on for the night before he hit the road again.

He hid his gun under the t-shirt he threw on in a semblance of decency and took a look through the peephole. He was met with an arched eyebrow. He sighed, opening the door.

Peter looked fresh and stylish in his white shirt and simple jeans. He took a moment before he stepped in, as if wondering if that was a good idea. It wasn’t but he still entered the room. He looked around, his eyes stopping briefly on the standard motel furniture. His lip curled in a sneer.

“I like what you’ve done with the living room. Looks so cozy and all.”

“Cut the bullshit. You’re not here for small talk”, Chris snapped.

Peter hummed noncommittally. Chris clenched his teeth.

“What are you here for?”, he hissed.

Peter gave him a long calculating look. He nodded at the needle in Chris’ hand.

“Give me that.”

The look Chris gave him spoke for itself. Peter rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to stab you with it.”

The hunter didn’t budge. Peter growled, turning to leave.

“Fine. Stitch yourself up then.”

“Hale!”

Peter looked over his shoulder. Chris sighed and handed over the needle.

*

“So. A hunter hunting hunters”, Peter muttered with a teasing tone while still focused on his task. Two stitches done, ten more to go.

“Those scums weren’t hunters”, Argent hissed.

“Pretty sure they were”, Peter argued.

The other man was quiet for a few heartbeats. A few _painful_ heartbeats. Peter didn’t need to smell the chemosignals to feel the deep ache in Argent’s chest, almost as if it were his own.

“My daughter died believing and defending the Code. I will not have anyone sully her legacy.”

Peter didn’t have much to say to that. He didn’t have anyone he truly cherished, not after he’d found out how much Talia had stolen from him. His own child was estranged and even after she’d found out who she was, who _he_ was, she didn’t care about him. Nine more stitches down, just one more and he was done.

“I’m sorry about Allison”, he found himself saying.

“It wasn’t your fault”, Argent said then he snorted. “For once.”

The corner of Peter’s lip pulled up in a reluctant bitter smile. His hand twitched. Argent hissed, turning around to face him.

“I’m s-…”, Peter began before he caught himself. He didn’t apologize. He _never_ apologized.

Argent stared at him. His pale eyes looked like they were searching for something in Peter’s own blue orbs. And then he looked lower, at Peter’s lips. The hunter’s gaze became hungry.

Peter didn’t know what happened. One moment they were staring at each other, the next second clothes were being torn apart, fingers roamed naked flesh and starved lips kissed and bit and licked. The air stank of need, pain and desperation, of confusion and shock and something else. But the need, the bone-deep need prevailed. Peter growled. Argent groaned. Peter moved them in another position, unaware why and only later realizing he was sparing Argent’s wounds. He moved on instinct. They needed a vent and he let the animal take control.

Normally he didn’t let himself be topped, too hung up on his need to control everything. But the animal had other ideas and Peter found himself letting it happen. He let Argent’s lubed fingers generously coat his hole, as if he wouldn’t just heal even if he was hurt; Peter was used on pain. But Argent looked very focused on making sure the wolf wouldn’t be hurt and that just did something for Peter, making him strangely submissive for a moment.

And then Argent had to ask,

“Are you ready?”

Peter grinned toothily around fangs he didn’t bother hiding, flashing his eyes - he was no longer holding back.

“I was born ready.”

 

_Start me up_  
Open my eyes  
Turn me loose and you'll see why  
I was born, born ready  
I was born, born ready  
Staring at the pressure now  
I won't quit, not backing down  
I was born, born ready  
I was born, born ready _…_

 

The sheets were long torn into a cotton mess. His claws dug into the headboard leaving deep cracks into the wood; there was already swarf on the floor and Peter grinned at it before another thrust wrecked his body with white-hot mind-numbing pleasure. He whimpered, holding back on the last piece of his true self. As if knowing that, Chris bent lower and whispered in his ear,

“Howl for me”, before resuming his punishing pace, making the bed move and leave cracks on the wall.

His throat ached as he let go and howled: long and deep and drawn-out, as he came hard and fell apart in Argent’s arms.

*

Chris woke up slowly, feeling his whole body throb with pain and contentment. It was a strange mix he’d never felt before since he didn’t actually get off on pain, no matter what people thought. But those two feelings now were completely separate: he was in pain because of his wounds and was content after a deliciously debauched night of sex. With Peter Hale.

He turned around, knowing he’d be alone but still feeling a little pang at finding Peter gone. All the torn sheets and blankets were piled up on top of him and his wounds were redressed. He grinned - he had no idea how the furry menace had managed that without waking him. He collapsed back on the bed, content to just lie there for now.

*

He was staring at the wall with unseeing eyes, his hands moving on autopilot as he tempered the chocolate. It had been two days and his wolf was still restless, pacing inside his head as if searching for something. Maybe he needed to indulge himself with a long run, shifted. But he needed a safe area for that. He couldn’t risk running into hunters unprepared, distracted by letting go.

Still, he had let go completely two days ago. With a hunter. Argent had been… a nice surprise. Peter had never pegged him to be so uninhibited in bed while also incredibly considerate of his partner. He’d been very… thorough. Peter could still feel himself throb in places he’d never believed could throb with pleasure.

“Uh, boss?!”

He snapped out of his daze, pulled back by the distressed call of his employee. He looked down at the mess in his hands – his chocolate clung on the counter in lumps.

“Fuck”, he hissed.

And that was just the problem, wasn’t it?

He needed to shake off that stupid post-coital daze. He was in no mood for a hookup so that left him with only one other choice. Back to his first thought. He needed a safe place to run.

*

Going back to Beacon Hills hadn’t been on Chris’ list. He hadn’t even gone back with the excuse of having to help Scott with something. Sure, he’d dropped by to say hello to the now young man but he was mostly just visiting, inexplicably drawn to the town he normally hated. There was no logical reason for him to come back. There were only bad memories here. It was the place where he’d lost a wife, a daughter and for a while he’d thought he’d lost his reason to live. Yet, here he was. Restless.

There weren’t that many options for a restless hunter in Beacon Hills so he opted for the most logical and obvious thing to do – he went hunting. Not for weres but merely small prey. Something to make his skin stop itching. Hopefully.

He had just set his eyes on a rabbit when something else caught his attention. A movement, too fast and too far away for him to properly take a look but it still intrigued him. He dropped his stance, lifted the rifle on his shoulder and went to check.

The animal was long gone by the time he reached the place he’d last seen it. He crouched low, looking for paw-prints. There were none.

But there was a footprint there and another one a few feet away as if someone with long legs had been running fast. Someone wearing Clive Christian №1.

Chris smiled slowly.

Now that was a hunt he’d much rather prepare and go for!

*

Peter’s breathing was labored and his lungs hurt from the run and the effort to clench his teeth instead of gulping air openmouthed like his body begged. He wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction of seeing him even weaker. It was bad enough that he was caught in that trap, a circle of ultrasonic emitters – just the thing he had been running from and trying to avoid. It was bad enough that he was on his knees, the stupid devices wreaking havoc in his body.

He had come here to run and find peace. He had minded his own business, for once not driven by scheming and greed for power. He’d done nothing, nothing to deserve that.

Heavy boots came in his line of vision as the man stepped in front of him. Peter looked up defiantly.

Chris smiled, lifting the rifle on his shoulder. They both knew it was just for show by now. He pressed a button on a smaller device in his other hand and disengaged the emitters. He looked down at Peter expectantly.

Peter lifted his chin, stubbornly proud even on his knees.

 

_I won't shiver_  
I won't shake  
I'm made of stone  
I don't break _…_

 

The second time they had sex was just as desperate as their first try. Chris still had his flat here so they stumbled in the bedroom like it was their only purpose, their only way on communicating. And maybe it was.

But as Peter sank inside the hunter, staking a claim he didn’t know he had to, proving that he was not the prey but the predator, something clicked and blinded him with sudden clarity.

He hadn’t cared for his other one-offs and he certainly wasn’t as careful with them the way he was with Chris. He’d spent nearly ten minutes stretching the man before he’d slipped inside him. He didn’t need to ask if he’d done that before - he knew Chris had never been with a man and his wolf howled wildly in his head at this realization. But he was also scared because he’d never felt as connected to someone as he felt with the hunter. A hunter of all people! He wanted to laugh hysterically and he wanted to cry as his broken soul ached with hope. Hope that he couldn’t afford.

He knew he had leave in the morning and nothing would change that. But as he chased Chris’ orgasm he knew that leaving this man was going to be one of the hardest things he’d had to do, even if it made no sense. And as the icy blue eyes gazed up at him it looked like the ice was melting and the man was aching for something Peter couldn’t give. He just didn’t know how. No one had ever taught him how to love.

Chris cried out hoarsely as his orgasm finally hit him. Only then did Peter let himself go as well, muffling his own scream in the man’s strong muscular shoulder.

*

Alan Deaton looked up from his notes as he felt his wards warning him about a presence just outside of his office. He concentrated for a second then closed his eyes and sighed. He expected it. And it was time he faced his own sins.

He opened the back door, staring into the darkness in vain. Then he broke the line of mountain ash.

“Come in, Peter.”

The man stepped out of the darkest corner gracefully. Deaton bit back a groan – Peter had always had a thing for drama, ever since he was a child. A sweet child Deaton had indirectly helped turn into a psychopath.

“I just dropped by for some wolfsbane. In my line of work it comes in handy”, Peter sneered.

“You need wolfsbane for baking?”, Deaton asked sweetly.

Peter grinned around fangs.

“Cake of the day.”

“Ah”, Alan nodded.

“I don’t expect any favors. Name your price”, Peter said offhandedly.

Alan was quiet for a moment as he rummaged in his drawers.

“Is that the only reason you came here?”, he asked suddenly.

Peter frowned. “Excuse me if I don’t actually enjoy your company.”

Deaton ignored the jab.

“Have you felt restless recently? Incomplete no matter what you do?”

Peter’s frown deepened. Alan smirked.

“Or should I say, no matter what you do… _with the single exception of Chris Argent_.”

Next thing he knew he was pinned to the door with the tips of Peter’s claws digging slightly into his throat. The wolf looked absolutely feral for a second and Alan knew what that meant. Peter, obviously caught off guard by his own reaction, retreated his claws and stepped back with a frown.

“I just came for wolfsbane”, he muttered.

Alan cleared his throat. He ran a hand down his face in a nervous gesture Peter had never seen before in the composed vet.

“There is something you should know. Something I should probably tell Derek too, before this mess gets even more out of hand.”

Peter arched an eyebrow. Deaton sighed.

“Talia knew about Derek and Kate.”

The wolf tensed. His eyes widened and flared neon-blue.

“What?”

“There was a prophecy once. That a wolf will find their mate in a hunter. And that would result in a unit stronger than any other before.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah. We saw how that played out.”

“She wasn’t his mate”, Deaton argued.

“Well, obviously.”

“But your sister didn’t know that. She was willing to wait and see and that cost her dearly.”

“Cost her? Cost _her_?! She fucking died and left her mess on me – her comatose brother, whose mind she had already fucked around with, and her three orphans!”, Peter bellowed.

“That’s another thing. She was unsure who the prophecy was about. So she took away your memories because she believed you might be meant for someone else. It wasn’t just Derek who was playing around with a hunter at the time.”

“What?”, Peter asked with a faint voice. Deaton didn’t look away from his eyes.

“The prophecy wasn’t meant for Derek and Kate. She was just… the wrong Argent, if you will. But _your_ story with Chris Argent has not just begun now. Has it?”

“It was just one time…”, Peter felt his knees go weak.

“Right before the fire”, Alan confirmed.

Peter straightened up, shaking his head.

“That’s bullshit. Argent is not my mate. We just fuck around and that’s it. Now. I didn’t come here for fairytales. Wolfsbane. _Now_ ”, he growled.

Deaton handed him an assortment of a few kinds of the herb.

“Here. A gift. It cannot redeem my sins but it’s the least I could do.”

“Your sins?”, Peter growled.

“Talia needed someone to teach her how to manage her alpha power. I was her Emissary.”

Peter nodded with a bitter smile. “Did you watch her wiping up my memories of Malia’s mother?”, he hissed.

Silence.

“ _Did you?!_ ”, he hollered.

Alan remained silent. Peter sneered.

“Telling me this now changes nothing, Deaton. It doesn’t miraculously erase your sins. And this”, he clenched the wolfsbane, “doesn’t buy you forgiveness.”

He spun around and left, back into the darkness where he had come from.

*

Things were simple: he was going to leave this hellhole once and for all. His suitcase was ready and he’d hit the road in the morning. He’d done the right getting away the first time. Why did he come back again? For a safe run? Ha! Beacon Hills was anything but safe!

He was proven right when he felt a pull towards the Preserve in the middle of the night. He couldn’t exactly place the feeling and he resolutely ignored Deaton’s fairytales about mates. But something was definitely happening there right now and he had to know what.

So he shifted and ran, trying in vain to see, hear or smell something. He felt like he had roamed the whole Preserve before he finally caught a faint trace of something familiar. Gunpowder, leather and something else he recently associated with pleasure and torn clothes.   

Fuck.

The closer he got the more smells he caught. Pain, intense pain and anguish that made him feel sick as he ran towards the small clearing. He halted at the edge of it, fighting back anything that tried to escape his tightly clenched lips.

There, in a heap on the grass, was a man. And if Peter didn’t know his usual scent, still there under the smell of blood, he would never have recognized him. He was all black and blue, badly broken and left behind.

Peter took the last few steps and fell on his knees next to Chris.

“Hey”, he choked out. “Hey. Open your eyes.”

The eyelids trembled and lifted slowly, as if with great effort. Pale blue orbs stared at him, clouded with pain. Bloody foam bubbled from chapped lips as Chris wheezed out,

“Hunt…ers. Six of ‘em. Get… the hell… away.”

Peter shook his head. “I looked through the whole Preserve and didn’t run into them. They’re gone.”

Chris sighed, relieved. His eyes slipped closed.

“Hey! Open up your eyes, fucker! Hey! Open up your fucking eyes!”

But Chris had lost consciousness.

The roar Peter let out could wake up the dead. It was loud, furious and promising revenge. This time there would be no bodies to be found.

*

Stiles watched detachedly as another agent ran out of the warehouse to throw up. Stiles was immune to that, having grown up as the nosy kid of the sheriff and then later dealing with that himself. On a weekly basis. Long before going into FBI. He used to live in Beacon Hills after all.

It was hard to imagine that the pieces of tissue and bones they found used to be living beings once. He’d seen carnage before but that was another level.

“Sir? We found a single finger and we were able to scan the fingerprint”, the new guy informed him, showing him the results on his tablet. “Samuel Smith. He was wanted for an assault over Christopher Argent. The report is from Beacon Hills.”

Of course it was.

Time to call daddy dearest and inform him to no longer search for Mr. Smith.

But as he pulled out his phone there was already a message waiting for him from an unknown number. He opened it.

_“You once told me people were too quick to call me the bad guy. But I am, Stiles. This is your proof.”_

Stiles typed back quickly.

_“I also told you that as long as there are no innocents harmed I have no problem with your ways of dealing with garbage. Say hi to your mate.”_

He pocketed his phone and looked at the new kid.

“Cause of death is gas explosion”, he said.

*

Peter stumbled into the hospital, tripping into his own feet. His vision was blurry. He was exhausted or maybe also heavily bleeding. But maybe that wasn’t his blood.

He leaned on the wall, staggering, almost crawling in the direction of that familiar scent now covered with the smell of drugs and hospital. Peter didn’t like how those last smells obscured his favorite scent. His hand left a bloody trace on the wall as he progressed slowly.

He finally set foot into the room, letting out a sigh. For a moment he just stood there at the threshold, looking at the man on the bed. He was pale and still badly bruised (humans healed so slowly) but his breathing was even and his pulse was strong. Good. That was…. Good.

He was still in pain though. Maybe Peter should draw some. Yeah. Now, just…

As he took his next step he felt the world tilting and the floor got closer and then it was dark. He vaguely registered the footsteps, light, woman’s, and then a scream.

Ah, fuck. He’d deal with that later. He’d earned a nap.

*

Chris blinked slowly, groaning quietly at the onslaught of sunshine. There was something strangely missing though. It took him some time to figure out that he pain he expected wasn’t there. Huh.

He looked around, his eyes stopping on the man sleeping on the uncomfortable chair next to his bed. Peter’s hand was still wrapped around his wrist.

_Oh_.

Chris smiled, closing his eyes again.

*

_“Hey, Drama Wolf. I can’t believe I’m writing an e-mail in the 21 century just to hear from someone!_

_So. How’s it going? You don’t call, don’t write anymore. I certainly don’t miss cleaning after you messes but hey. Just wanted to remind you we’re still here. Derek and I._

_I know that you think he hates you but he doesn’t. Not anymore. He hasn’t forgiven you Laura, but he understands now. Therapy helped both of us. Maybe you should try. Maybe it’s still too soon. No pressure._

_How’s mated life? Did you get into each other’s faces or is it still honeymoon phase?_

_Don’t be a stranger._

_Stiles.”_

*

Stiles picked up his mail, mostly bills and Derek’s sports magazines since the man was stubborn and old-fashioned and preferred paper over technology. He was about to step into the elevator when the janitor called his name. Stiles turned around.

“Hey, Mr. M.”, he smiled.

The old man smiled back, handing him a large box.

“This came for you with the mail. It was too big for the mailbox though.”

It also sported a few stickers informing that it was to be handled delicately and delivered to Mr. Stiles Stillinski and Mr. Derek Hale.

He thanked the janitor, entered the lift and soon stepped into his and Derek’s flat. He deposited the box on the kitchen table and tore at the wrapping paper. When he finally opened the lid his face split in a huge smile.

Inside was a strawberry shortcake and Derek’s favorite double chocolate ganache pie.

*

It was probably one of the last warm days of the year. The sun felt nice on Peter’s head resting in Chris’ lap. The hunter carded his fingers through Peter’s hair and slowly swayed the porch swing – the main reason they’d bought the house. The smell of drugs and hospital had finally worn off and the man smelled like himself again. Peter took a deep breath. Leather, gunpowder, coffee, sex, happiness. No smoke. No ash.

Peter inhaled deeply again. He was finally home.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> The story was inspired by the song used in it: Born Ready by Zayde Wolf.


End file.
